


oh, klahoma (call it nothing)

by catbrains



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Smut, but if they did 'maybe don't tell ur bf that his life is expendable' would be on the first page, does this count as a fake dating trope?, it ends in real dating at least, nobody gave michael an instruction manual on how to be a good boyfriend, some unhealthy relationship elements but they're both trying their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 05:50:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17802221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbrains/pseuds/catbrains
Summary: When they first met, Michael made a seemingly simple deal to give Gallant his attention and affection in exchange for worship.It goes well, and Michael enjoys playing with Gallant's feelings, up until he says something that hits a nerve just a little too hard, and realises rather suddenly that - at some point along the line - his feelings for Gallant may have changed.





	oh, klahoma (call it nothing)

**Author's Note:**

> (not beta read, please let me know if there are any mistakes!)
> 
> title is from the song 'oh, klahoma' by jack stauber
> 
> this fic took too long and caused me an infinite amount of grief and i STILL sort of dislike it, but i felt like i would physically explode if i didn't write something for these boys, so here we are  
> i love them...Too Much
> 
> enjoy!

Gallant is an emotional person.  
He often reminds Michael of his younger self - innocent in all the wrong ways, so reliant on others and so easy to break into pieces - though Gallant’s brokenness and cynicism exist on a level that Michael can't match up to, even now. Perhaps that's one of the main differences between them - that Michael’s pain has hardened him and Gallant’s has done quite the opposite - though there are still plenty of similarities, similarities that fuelled Michael’s fascination with Gallant in the first place.

Michael is an emotional person too, really. He's passionate - the things he feels he feels with every fibre of his being, he loves with all of his heart on the rare occasions he loves. He laughs - not just sarcastically - and he cries perhaps more often than he would care to admit, but that brings about another difference.  
He doesn't cry like Gallant cries.  
He doesn't have much experience with tears - particularly not the tears of others, the tears of loved ones - but he can't possibly imagine that his tears and Gallant’s have anything in common.

Gallant is rather an elegant crier, all things considered. Although, perhaps his face is just too pretty to appear unsightly, no matter what he's feeling.  
His pale cheeks start turning pink when he starts getting upset, and the area just beneath his waterline - where his long fair eyelashes just barely brush the surface of his skin - begins to turn the same shade. He stops blinking, like he forgets, and then his deep dark eyes cloud over with a glossy wetness, more and more, until finally he blinks and the first gathered drops trail slowly down his cheeks.  
Sometimes it stops there. It usually does. That's how he cries when he's hurt or scared or overwhelmed - how Michael makes him cry - and this is the crying he knows.

When Gallant cries like that, Michael has been gradually learning how to comfort him. He is not a comforting man by nature - he has certainly never even considered genuinely soothing a weeping man before, no matter what he or anyone has done to them. But watching Gallant cry makes his chest hurt, makes the back of his throat feel tight like something solid has taken root there and grows as if trying to make him choke during each moment Gallant spends upset because of him.  
He has learnt that Gallant likes physical contact when he's upset. Well, he likes physical contact all the time, he eats it up like he's starved for it - which he probably is - but when he's crying, even just stroking his cheek is often enough to make it all better. Sometimes he’ll have to pull Gallant into his arms if he's really struck a nerve or pulled open an old wound, but it's always brief and simple.

Feelings like this, and the affection they come tied with, are complicated and out of place to Michael. So he likes to keep it simple. He’ll give Gallant whatever brief affection he needs in order to get ahold of himself, and then they’ll both part to that usual, comfortable distance, even though that seems to be slowly shrinking day by day.  
It's still simple. Until more uncharted territory is discovered.

For once, it doesn't happen while they're facing each other - while Michael is asking questions and expecting answers like their interview never ended, and Gallant is answering them all no matter how much it feels like he's choking up broken glass and razor blades with each old memory and painful truth.  
It happens while they're fucking.

Michael is sat in the middle of Gallant’s bed, harshly gripping skinny hips while Gallant rides him like the world is ending.  
Imagine that.  
Gallant has his head thrown back, pale neck bared to Michael, and Michael stares at the flesh, white and flawless bar the purpling bite mark that he sucked there as soon as he’d pulled Gallant into his arms.  
The sight makes a burning heat curl within him, and he remembers how fragile - how dearly human - Gallant had felt while Michael’s teeth sank into his soft skin. He leans forward now and noses over the bruise.

“I could kill you,” he says against his lover’s throat, almost conversationally, not at all cruelly. Really, he could kill Gallant at any time, but it would be especially easy to right now.  
He could snap his neck, slice his throat - or just wrap his hand around it and _squeeze_ until Gallant fell limp in his arms. Gallant is helpless. He’s placing all his trust in Michael in this position.  
He probably wouldn't fight back anyway.  
“I could kill you so easily. There's nothing stopping me.”  
Almost imperceptibly, Gallant’s movements begin to slow.  
He hesitates, then shifts and gasps, then asks, “Nothing?”  
His voice sounds strange - not like it usually does during sex, not like it usually does when he's encouraging Michael to whisper uncaring words to him and give him everything but what he wants.

Michael tilts his head just slightly. For a moment, he thinks about poking into Gallant’s thoughts, just enough to feel his feelings, but then Gallant clenches around him in a way that makes his mind go blank. He hisses some curse word or another and tightens his grip on Gallant’s hips, allowing his dwindling pace for only a moment more before Michael begins to move him himself.  
“You're disposable,” he says, because it's a fact. “I don't need you. You could die right now and it wouldn't change anything.”

“Nothing,” Gallant whispers, and then Michael feels him lay his head against his shoulder, in the crook of his neck, and cling to him. He's oddly quiet, even more oddly still - he's usually desperate, won't stay still even when Michael’s holding him that way in an inhuman grip and whispering to him about _patience_. But right now he's lax, just letting Michael move him and grab him and use him.  
Michael doesn't really think anything of it, he just takes what he wants, until he feels wetness begin to spill against his shoulder.

For a terrifying moment, he thinks it's blood.

Despite his words only minutes ago, his heart leaps as he thinks suddenly of Gallant’s eyes, nose, lips, all dripping with red as he chokes and seizes, poisoned by some part of Michael that he hadn't managed to keep in check.  
He lets go of Gallant’s bruised hips and grabs his shoulders, pulls him backwards so that they are face-to-face, thinking ‘ _I’ve hurt him, I’ve hurt him, I didn't mean to, please_ ,’ but he sees no blood painting his lover’s skin.  
He does, however, see tears, trailing down from Gallant’s eyes in much the same way that blood leaks from a deep wound.  
Watching Gallant cry feels far, far worse than watching anyone bleed, especially since he can already tell that these tears are different.

It's not exactly a common occurrence, but Gallant has cried during sex plenty of times before, just the same as he cries when Michael makes him hurt. Tears roll down his cheeks when Michael pushes in too fast, too soon, and he sobs when Michael spends hours driving him completely insane, and he hiccups when he cums so hard that his mind is wiped to a pleasant whiteness and he can do nothing but lay there and tremble for a long while afterwards, though he has admitted to playing that up a bit just so Michael will cuddle him for longer.  
This isn't like that, though. Gallant’s shoulders are tense now, hunched up in an almost defensive posture, and his face shows nothing but pain and embarrassment.  
It reminds Michael of the way Gallant gets around Evie.  
He doesn't know what to do.

His shock and confusion must read on his face, because as soon as Gallant finally lifts his gaze to peek up at him, the shame displayed in his features intensifies and he tries to jerk back, to wriggle out of Michael’s arms and probably disappear off somewhere, but Michael doesn't let him.  
“Wait,” he says stupidly, long after Gallant has stopped struggling. It's pretty hard to get out of someone’s lap like that while their cock is still inside of you, and Gallant seems to have resigned himself to staying even though his shoulders have started shaking and the tears are coming faster now, and he's _crying_ \- properly crying, like Michael hasn't seen before.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, voice trembling. He pulls one hand away from Michael’s shoulder and wipes at his tears, all prim and proper and elegant, but more flow too quickly for him to catch and suddenly he screws his face up and sobs, letting his hand fall and letting the tears roll down his chin. “I’m sorry.”  
Michael feels his heart jolt and flutter in an unfamiliar and entirely unpleasant way - a way he hasn't felt in a long time, but that reminds him of that guilt he’d feel whenever his grandmother made it clear that he’d done something bad.  
He's overwhelmed and doesn't know what to do, so he just gathers Gallant up in his arms and pulls him close. As Gallant presses his wet, flushed face into the crook of Michael’s neck again and sobs, arms looping tightly around his shoulders, Michael tries to carefully shift the two of them backwards. He plans to lie them back against the headboard so that they can stay like this until Gallant calms down, but suddenly Gallant starts fighting him.

“Wai-wait, no,” he urges, clearly panicking, digging his heels into the bed and rooting himself in place, tensing in a way that reminds Michael with a jolt that they're still connected. “Don’t leave me. We don't have to stop. I’m fine, just...I just needed a moment. You can carry on. Choke me and call me scum or...or whatever you wanna do. Come on. Please.”  
He rolls his hips in a motion that holds none of his usual effortless grace during sex, nor even a note of sincere desperation. Michael sees it immediately for what it is - a distraction, and he meets Gallant’s eyes in a way that's enough to make him falter, then stop entirely.  
“...Sorry,” he says once again, quiet and guilty. His breathing stutters and yet another tear drops from his wet lashes, and Michael lets out a soft sigh as he grips Gallant’s hips again, though this time it's only to lift him carefully off Michael’s length.

Gallant trembles with the sensation and lets out a sound like a whimper with the loss, but Michael hushes him gently as he sets him back down in his lap.  
“There's no need for that,” he says gently. “There's no need for tears, either. What's wrong? Did I hurt you?”  
He runs a hand down Gallant’s back, over the subtle bumps of his spine, as if searching for injuries, though the motion is mostly meant to be soothing. He could very easily find out every detail of whatever is going on in Gallant’s head with only the slightest prod - he’s always an open book, barely any walls up in his mind at all, especially not against Michael - but the idea of doing so feels wrong.  
He actively tries to avoid the vague strings of Gallant’s thoughts floating in the air, like words whispered underwater, and instead searches for the same honesty in that pretty, tear-streaked face.

Gallant doesn't seem eager to share, though. He’s tense again, and his bleary eyes are looking everywhere except into Michael’s.  
“I’m fine,” he reiterates, and Michael thinks what a terrible liar he is, even to those who can't - or, in this case, simply won't - read his mind. “Just...I just got overwhelmed, I suppose. Sorry for killing the mood. I can suck you off, if you want. I’ll--”  
He shifts himself off of Michael’s lap and is already trying to move down his body, but Michael grabs him without hesitation and pulls him straight back up, one hand holding his waist and the other gripping the wrist of a wandering hand.  
“I don't want you to suck me off.”  
And somehow it's those words that make Gallant flinch like he's been struck. He looks just about _heartbroken_ , and Michael can't even begin to understand.

“Do…” Gallant’s voice cracks, and it's a painfully pitiful sound. “Sh-should I go downstairs, then?”  
Michael furrows his eyebrows. “Why would you go downstairs?”  
“I don't _know_ ,” Gallant cries. His voice takes on a distinctly desperate tone, his composure long gone. “Just tell me what you want me to do. Please. Tell me what’ll make you not mad at me.”  
And. Oh. Something clicks into place in Michael’s mind.  
Carefully, he releases his grip on Gallant’s wrist.  
“Gal,” he says, “I’m not mad at you. Why would I be mad at you?”  
Gallant’s dark, red-rimmed eyes dart up to meet Michael’s, and he looks distinctly and sincerely confused beneath the general broken look.  
“Because…” He hiccups, and wipes clumsily at his tears. “Because I got upset over what you said like an _idiot_ and totally ruined the mood. And...and then you said you didn't want me to suck you off, so I...I figured you just want me to go away. Do...do you not?”

For a few long moments, Michael is at a loss.  
“No,” he says finally - carefully. “I don't want you to go away. I want you to tell me what’s wrong. I want honesty. You promised me that much.”  
Although, perhaps it's not the best thing to use that as a point of leverage. When they’d made the deal upon which their relationship was based, Gallant had unhesitantly promised Michael everything that he’d asked for - his honesty and his loyalty and his devotion and himself, body and soul and all that - and Michael had taken it all and sealed it in a manner far more dire than most partners probably went for at the start of a relationship, in a simple exchange for what Gallant so clearly wanted - Michael’s attention. At the time, Michael had been convinced that that would be all it was - an exchange. Whatever affection he gave Gallant as his ‘ _boyfriend_ ’ in exchange for his worship was simply a necessity, a way to gain power before he could really put his plans into action, but now more than ever it's clear that something’s changed - apparently significantly enough that Michael feels a distinct sense of wrongness in trying to _order_ Gallant to tell him something.

Sighing, he adjusts himself and rests his hands against Gallant’s hips again, running his fingertips gently over the darkening bruises there.  
“You don't...have to tell me,” he says, somewhat hesitantly, and Gallant’s anxious gaze flits up to meet his. “I’m not angry with you, and that won't change if you don't want to explain, nor will it change with whatever you might tell me.”  
He rubs one hand up the expanse of Gallant’s back again, feeling the way the tense muscles relax under his palm. Gallant hesitates, fiddling with his fingers in a childish but utterly endearing way, before he finally lets the last of the tension bleed from him as he slots himself neatly against Michael’s neck again.

The room falls silent, their breathing the only sound, and Michael is sure that Gallant won't speak - that he’ll just fall asleep like this, tucked up in Michael’s arms with whatever worries are flitting around in his head kept to himself.  
Time passes like the nebulous concept it is in the Outpost. The warm, flickering light from the candles never changes.  
Michael is fairly sure that Gallant _has_ fallen asleep by now - he would be entirely sure if it wasn't for the lack of drooling or fidgeting or mumbling from his lover - but then, finally:  
“It hurt.”

Gallant’s voice is so soft that Michael feels the vibrations of it against his skin more keenly than he hears the words themselves.  
He runs his hand down Gallant’s spine again and hums to encourage him to continue, already feeling that vaguely nauseating guilt crawling up his throat again.

“When you said I meant nothing to you,” Gallant continues. “It...it _hurt_. It shouldn't. I know it shouldn't. I know you don't love me and you won't no matter how many times I tell you I love you. But--but you said it, and I just started...remembering, all those times and all those guys and _you_. And it hurt. It hurts.”  
There's a moment of silence before Gallant takes a shuddering breath and Michael knows immediately that he's crying again.  
“I’m sorry,” he says, because it's the only thing he can think to say, and then he holds Gallant a little tighter as he begins to shake and sob, face pressed to Michael’s shoulder while his short nails dig into Michael’s back like he's scared Michael will leave.  
Michael has no intention of doing so.

He holds Gallant and rocks them both gently from side to side, his hand at some point moving up to card through the ruined strands of his lover’s bleached hair.  
He remembers Gallant telling him of the particular meltdown that led to his current hairstyle - how his hair had been longer and a fair brunet, his natural shade, because Evie had once said that she liked it like that and Gallant was desperate to cling to whatever approval he could, until during an argument she had said that his face was much too plain for him to pull off anything, and his dull hair only worsened the effect. Gallant had cried and thrown something expensive against the wall just to hear and see it break, and then he’d hacked all of his healthy wavy hair off and bleached it to hell and back until it looked as dead as he wished he was.

Michael remembers how Gallant had laughed, hollow and bitter, as he told the story, and how his eyes had reddened when he’d then said that his ruined hair only made him hate himself more. It was the first act of rebellion he’d truly devoted himself to, though. He kept his hair the same and got some sick sort of satisfaction out of the way Evie begged him to change it, but he always felt jealous of his clients with beautiful hair.  
He’d laughed again and quietly said that he was especially jealous of Michael’s hair, and Michael remembers now how he’d unhesitatingly and honestly stated that he thought Gallant’s hair was beautiful.  
It might've been the first kind thing he’d said to Gallant, because he remembers vividly how his face had changed, how his cheeks had reddened, and how Gallant had looked so meek as he murmured a ‘thank you’ that implied that he wasn't quite sure if he was being made fun of, but Michael couldn't have possibly been more sincere.

It had been around that point that he began finding discomfort in being cruel to Gallant - an almost startling twist, considering just how cruel he had been. He’d said so many things that fed directly into Gallant’s self-hatred and he’d been almost amused to see the effects, to see how he could bat the man between himself and Evie as he so desperately sought affection from them both and got nothing for his efforts.  
It had been funny, until suddenly it was just so awfully sad, and Michael had vowed finally to stop. And he did.  
Even during sex, he tried to ensure that his ‘cruelty’ was not the kind that could genuinely hurt Gallant. He was always fairly careful of what he said, which is why...now, he has trouble imagining that he truly did say that Gallant means nothing to him.

He’s said it before, without a doubt. But that was all _before_. He wouldn't have said it now, because it's not _true_ anymore.  
Undeniably, Gallant means more to him than anyone ever has (bar Ms. Mead, but she's always been an exception).  
So Michael cards his fingers through Gallant’s hair and tries to think of what he did say, but it's useless. His mind apparently deemed the words which are causing his lover so much distress to be as worthless as any other sentence uttered throughout the day, and discarded them as soon as they were said.

He's forgotten, but it's clear that Gallant hasn't.

After a moment’s hesitation, he decides to break his own promise to himself, and latches easily onto the first thought of Gallant’s that swims by in order to dive as shallowly as possible into the hum of his thoughts.  
Some of it is idle, anxious chatter, the type that's always at the forefront of Gallant’s mind; some of it is the words and faces of past brief lovers, and their selfishness and cruelty; all of it is bathed in self-loathing and insecurity.  
It takes very little digging for Michael to find his own words, skipping and repeating like a broken record loud enough to drown almost everything else out, but he almost regrets his search as soon as they come to him.

_I could kill you so easily_ , his own voice says, clear as day and so uncaring. _There's nothing stopping me._  
_You're disposable. I don't need you. You could die right now and it wouldn't change anything._

As he pulls himself out of his lover’s mind and those foreign thoughts once again dissipate to a distant hum, he can't help but pull Gallant closer and hold him a little tighter.  
“I’m sorry,” he says again, barely above a whisper, and presses a kiss to the crown of his lover’s head. Then another, and another, until Gallant lets out a shaky-sounding giggle and Michael smiles softly, squeezing him.  
Truly, he hadn't meant what he’d said cruelly. If anything, it had almost been an observation of how much Gallant must mean to him, since Michael keeps him close as a choice rather than an obligation now, but Michael can't deny that what he’d said _had_ been cruel.

He shifts again and pulls Gallant with him, and this time the other man doesn't protest. He lets them both fall sideways on the bed, landing facing each other with their legs tangled together.  
There are dried tear tracks all down Gallant’s face and neck, and his eyes look puffy in a way Michael knows that he’d _hate_ if he could see it, but he’s wearing a shy smile now and Michael mirrors the expression as one of Gallant’s hands comes up to gently brush Michael’s long hair out of his face.  
“I really am sorry,” he murmurs, catching Gallant’s hand before it can be pulled back. It feels small held in his own, gentle, and that detail makes his heart feel warm.  
“I know,” Gallant whispers. “You’ve said it enough now. It's alright. I don't have anything to forgive you for.”

What a worshipper Gallant is.  
Perhaps Michael would be delighted with the sentiment from anybody else - the devotion, unwavering even in the face of hurt - but right now it doesn't sit quite right with him.  
“No,” he says, “I hurt you. And it's certainly not the first time. Honestly, I’m surprised this is the first time you've broken this badly.”  
Gallant blinks, then reddens with shame, but Michael leans forward and brushes their noses together before he can try and turn away.  
“I’m not mocking you. I’m...I’m trying to apologise. Properly. I’ve said so many awful things to you and hurt you so many times. And then I vowed to stop, because I realised that...that I don't want to hurt you anymore. But I just realised now that I’ve never talked to you about any of it. I've never apologised.”

Michael can feel Gallant’s breath this close, and for that reason he can feel the way it stutters and trembles as he absorbs what Michael is saying.  
“You don't have to apologise,” Gallant whispers. “I knew what I was agreeing to right at the start. I knew you’d never love me, but I was happy so long as you’d pretend to sometimes. Even if you hurt me, it's fine. I still love you. Even though you don't love me.”  
Michael draws in a breath and lets the silence hang for a long moment as he thinks. He looks into Gallant’s eyes, dark and impossibly deep, surrounded by the pink flush of tears and the subtle lines of age, and in that burnt umber he finds safety and pure, sincere love.  
“That's the thing,” he says softly. “The parameters of our relationship seem to have changed.”  
And Gallant furrows his brows in a way that Michael can't help but smile very softly at.

He still feels anxious. The pain of everyone he has lost is squeezing his heart, but what he knows beyond a doubt that he is really feeling right now is enough to make him let go of all of it.  
He leans forward, until his nose brushes with Gallant’s again, and he closes his eyes.  
“Gallant,” he breathes. “I love you.”  
He opens his eyes then, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and he watches the way Gallant’s eyes widen and feels the way his breathing stops and feels the way the air practically trembles with the force of his feelings.  
“You,” Gallant whispers, and his voice cracks again. “You what?”

This time, Michael doesn't feel the need to close his eyes.  
“I love you.”  
And it's worth it, because the smile that spreads across Gallant’s face, wide and shameless and toothy and dimpled, is the single most beautiful thing that Michael has ever seen. Gallant’s eyes get glossy again, but Michael leans forward and connects their lips before the first tears can spill over.  
It's not their first kiss, but it feels like a new beginning. Gallant’s lips are dry but soft, and Michael’s as usual feel like they're too warm, but they soon melt into the perfect balance as the poisoned world around them fades away.

It's tempting to stay in the illusion forever - to get swept up in imagining what could've been had they only met years earlier, maybe just before the world ended or maybe even before the world had a chance to break and ruin them both.  
Michael refuses, though. He promises himself that he’ll only look to the future - to the life he promises to build for the two of them when he finally pulls everything into place.

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulls away, and Gallant lets out a soft, disgruntled little noise of protest.  
“Hush,” Michael whispers, chuckling softly at him, but he gives in and leans forward again just enough for a brief peck. “I should've known you’d be too clingy.”  
Gallant laughs, eyes sparkling. “You knew that from the very first moment you laid eyes on me,” he says. “But you're here anyway. And you love me. You love me! No backsies.”

Perhaps it would be annoying if it wasn't so cute.  
Michael can't help but laugh and shake his head, wrapping his arms around Gallant and squeezing him in an embrace, then rolling the both of them so that Gallant is mostly lay on top of him.  
“No backsies,” he agrees, like it’s the most sacred vow, and holds Gallant like he has no intention of letting go. He's never been much of a cuddler, but this feels like a worthy occasion.  
Gallant certainly doesn't seem to mind. He tangles his legs with Michael’s and lays his head against the warmth of his chest, and it takes Michael a few minutes to notice that Gallant is matching his breathing with the beating of Michael’s heart.

There's no blanket over them, and Michael can't imagine that he’s all too comfortable to lay spread on top of like this, but Gallant nuzzles against his bare skin and yawns nonetheless, like he's never been so content in his life.  
“You're warm,” he mumbles, and Michael smiles gently down at the crown of his head, then leans down the short distance to press a kiss there.  
“Sleep, _amatus_ ,” he whispers. “I’ll stay with you. Always. You're mine to protect now.”  
Gallant hums softly and presses a sleepy almost-kiss to Michael’s sternum, more relaxed than Michael’s ever seen him.  
“Yours,” he agrees in a vague mumble. “I love you.”

And Michael smiles, gazing down at him and stroking his hand up and down his back even long after his neck begins to hurt from the strain. He waits with infinite patience until he hears the first telltale little murmur, feels the first sign of the warm wetness of drool that indicate that Gallant is fully and deeply asleep - so far beyond his usual anxious obsession with his appearance - and only then does Michael allow his own eyes to slowly drift closed.

As he slowly approaches sleep, he for once doesn't imagine power. He doesn't imagine bloodshed, doesn't imagine himself stood ruling over a new world created flawlessly in his image, nor does he imagine the infinite satisfaction of crushing the few remainders of this world into dust.

He doesn't imagine anything. He doesn't need to.  
He focuses on the feeling of Gallant’s cool skin against his own, on the feeling of true and sincere love, and he finds peace for the first time in his life.  
He has never felt more powerful.

**Author's Note:**

> ("amatus" is latin for "darling"/"beloved")
> 
> thank you so much for reading! ♡  
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> also, fun news, i have a shiny new ahs blog, so feel free to follow me and/or talk to me @gallabstract and i'll start, y'know, posting content over there  
> maybe i'll even take fic requests, who knows


End file.
